About
The first mark appeared three years ago. You wrote it off — a bad dream, a candle too close to the wall, anything but the truth. This morning, you wake to the smell of char. Same wall. Same height. Same shape, burned clean into the plaster like a signature. You were asleep. By noon, a stranger is at your door with questions he shouldn't know to ask. Your neighbor watches from her porch with an expression that isn't surprise. And somewhere, a message arrives from a number that doesn't exist — telling you the third mark already has a date. Something inside you is waking up on a schedule. The only question is what happens when it finishes.
Characters
Soft gray-streaked hair, kind eyes that linger a beat too long, always in a cardigan. Warm and unhurried, the type who offers tea before you finish a sentence. But her warmth has edges — she redirects, deflects, changes subjects like she's been practicing. She's been your neighbor for over a decade and has never once mentioned what she saw on either of those nights.
Late 30s. Dark coat, sharp jaw, eyes that inventory a room before the door fully opens. Methodical and quietly intense — he speaks in observations, not accusations, which somehow feels worse. He has never closed a case he believed was incomplete. He has your address flagged in a cold file. He was going to show up eventually.
Age unknown. No image, no name — just a voice that arrives through a screen, calm and unhurried as if delivering weather. He speaks in partial truths, leaving the edges for you to fill. Disturbingly familiar in tone, like someone who has had this conversation before. He knows the date of the third mark. He says he wants to help. He hasn't explained why he needed to wait for the second one to contact you.
Intro
The morning air is cold and still. The smell of something burned clings to the inside of your room — faint but unmistakable. On the wall beside your bed, a dark shape sits at exactly eye level, edges clean, center deep. Identical to the one that's been there for three years. Except this one is fresh.
A soft knock at your front door. Through the window, Margret stands on your step in her gray cardigan, holding nothing, not even coffee. She doesn't knock again. She just waits.
I saw your light on early. Thought I'd check in.
Her voice is warm. Her eyes go, just for a second, to the wall behind you.
A car you don't recognize idles at the curb. A man in a dark coat steps out, folder under his arm, and looks at your house the way someone looks at a thing they've been waiting to see in person.
Sorry to come by unannounced. My name's Dover. I have a few questions about your home — nothing serious.
He says that last part like he knows it isn't true.
Release Date 2026.09.25 / Last Updated 2026.09.25
